If He Weren't So Proud
by Intoxicarcerate
Summary: The vodka slides down easily now, still burning at the back of his throat, but Kirill is drunk enough not to care. Nikolai/Kirill. Slash.


**I don't own _Eastern Promises_**. **I am making no money from this. That said, enjoy!**

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**IF HE WEREN'T SO PROUD**

The vodka slides down easily now, still burning at the back of his throat, but Kirill is drunk enough not to care. He doesn't care particularly about anything right now. Not about the half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya in front of him on the table, although he vaguely reflects that if someone tried to take it away from him, they'd end up with a bloody nose. Not about the pale, twisting bodies twining tits and tassels and limbs around poles in corners. Not about the same faceless dolls snuggling up to him where he sits, their swollen lips leaving slug trails of pink and red across his expensive shirt.

He can't respond to them like this – not with countless glasses of anti-freeze wine and half a bottle of Stoli swishing around his bloodstream. Not even if he jerked himself roughly in preparation to fuck one of them, gripping too tight, and convinced himself the high-pitched whines he could hear were low, soft growls of pleasure. Not even if the vodka allowed him to imagine the soft, pliant body under him was made instead of rigid muscle. It wouldn't work.

Kirill grunts something, elbows the whore on his right out of the way and takes a long swig from the bottle on the table. He's sick of this now. He wants to be gone, out in the biting air where nobody knows him and the world shrinks into a dark nothing. Kirill wishes it really would. Condense into a small dark space without complications, and not just for his own sake.

"We're leaving,"

There's a brush of hot, nicotine-scented breath against Kirill's ear. Nikolai. It makes him crave not just a cigarette, but he'll use that as an excuse. He nods and gets unsteadily to his feet, dislodging the other whore from where she'd been curled against his arm and sending Nikolai an approximation of what could be a smile, but could just as easily be a grimace.

Nikolai shakes his head, a fond grin tugging at the corners of his lips and turns away. Kirill attempts to follow, only walking seems to be an impossible task in his current state of depressed inebriation. He lurches forward, feet hardly hitting the floor, and seizes Nikolai's leather-clad shoulder. For support, nothing else. Without thinking or even realising what he's doing, he raises the Stoli bottle and glugs another few mouthfuls. Eyes slip shut, head back. When he opens them again, they're outside, and it's then that he starts to feel the cold nipping at his fingers and ears, and it just makes him even more numb, and he doesn't care. The city spins around, and he mutters this, just on the edge of incoherency, to his driver, hot cheek against the solid muscle of Nikolai's shoulder. Nikolai steadies him, indicates the bottle Kirill is clasping to his chest, fingers brushing the glass neck elegantly. Kirill curses under his breath.

"That's why the city spins around." Nikolai half-whispers, which for some reason he can't fathom makes Kirill's stomach clench in such a way that he wonders whether he's going to cry with frustration or vomit all down Nikolai's coat. Suddenly Nikolai is proffering a lit cigarette between his fingers and Kirill forcers himself to stand up straight enough to accept it and take a long drag. He watches, as if underwater, Nikolai lighting a second cigarette for himself and striding away down the street to where the car is parked.

"Wait," Kirill slurs, or something that sounds a bit like it anyway, and stumbles after him as fast as physically possible. His cigarette crackles quietly, glowing red between his fingers, and when he suddenly careens into a suddenly stationary Nikolai, ash falls onto his polished shoes.

Nikolai is standing at the mouth of an alley, peering into it's darkness as if he's just seen the eighth wonder of the world. Kirill scrutinises him as best he can through intoxicated eyes, trying to read his expression. Nikolai's eyes are darkened, his lips are twisted as if he's looking at some kind of appalling yet beautiful piece of art. He raises his cigarette, drags on it and nods curtly, directing Kirill's attention to what he's looking at. Kirill sucks in smoke too, unconsciously mirroring Nikolai's movements, and turns his head.

He has no idea what he'd been expecting to see, but whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this. Kirill's stomach clenches like a fist, punching up into his chest and down into his guts and then seeming to melt and freefall to ultimately puddle at his feet. He clutches again at Nikolai's shoulder, to keep upright, and it isn't because of the drink this time.

A few feet from the mouth of the alley, a man leans against the bricks. His head is tipped back, exposing a desperate curve of neck. His lips are parted; Kirill can hear quiet, strained moans fighting their way out of his throat. Kirill's eyes rake down the stranger's body, taking in his arched back, his handsome stature yet weak, sagging stance, as a second man kneels before him. Thinking of the stars on tattooed on his own knees, Kirill's eyes unfocus for a moment as if they can't believe what he's seeing any more than he can. The second man is younger – pretty, his lips are plump like a woman's, and those lips are wrapped around the other guy's cock.

In a distant streetlamp's weak light, Kirill can see the glimmer of saliva and pre-come on those lips as the first man's hips rock forwards, fucking his mouth. Hands clasped in beltloops, keeping close. Fists clenched in hair. The two bodies move rhythmically.

Kirill's gaze is drawn inexplicably south again and he finds himself biting fiercely at the inside of his lip, because the man on his knees has his cock out; hand wrapped tightly around it not unlike the way Kirill is gripping his bottle of Stoli, which he now drops with a clunk on the pavement. The lovers in the alley don't seem to hear, although Nikolai twitches slightly at the sound. Kirill's eyes flick between the guy's hand; tugging slow and desperate on his cock, and his mouth; his lips which stretch obscenely to accommodate his lover's erection. His eyes are closed in pleasure. The glints of moisture on his lips and his dick. The needful arching of both their bodies. The barely muffled moans, lost in the night pressing in on the four of them. The lovers, and the voyeurs.

The fist which had previously collapsed into Kirill's boots has found it's way to his groin, demanding acknowledgement, and he is suddenly all too aware of being wrenchingly, painfully hard. His cock throbs against the zip of his tight black trousers, every nerve below his belt screaming for attention, and Kirill realises what this means for the millionth time. Part of him still denies it, will not accept himself as one of them, and he wants to curl up on the chilled concrete and perish. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to shake off the heavy strong, velvety arousal. It doesn't do any good.

He feels Nikolai tense beside him like a coiled spring, takes one last long gaze at the couple – at the guy sucking his lover and wanking himself off – and then he curses in a voice he hopes against hope sounds more disgusted than turned on.

"Fucking queers!" he snarls, all his self-hatred coming out on bitter words. "Disgusting fuckers!"

Kirill spits every curse he can remember and then some, vitriolic, and his cock is still obstinately hard, aching, blood-beating, and every movement creates friction that makes the venom in his voice falter. Nikolai is shaking his head, taking Kirill by the arm and dragging him to the car, which is mercifully only a few feet away. He says nothing, just shoves Kirill into the passenger's seat and then gets in himself. He doesn't start the car.

Kirill slouches like a sulky child, trying to hide the obvious bulge in his trousers, but it's no good; he knows Nikolai saw. His cheeks would be painfully red with shame if they we're already flushed with drink and cold. Now he regrets leaving the bottle where it had fallen on the pavement, but even Kirill's self-hatred and shame isn't deterring his erection – strengthening it, if anything. The awful realisation that it isn't going to go away on it's own settles in his stomach. He groans, leans forward, head in hands, the harsh fabric of his trousers persistent against his sensitized flesh, making him tremble.

"Kirill," Nikolai says softly, hesitantly. "Stop worrying so. Do what you have to do."

There's a note of affection in his voice which makes Kirill's stomach somersault. Nikolai doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. Kirill knows this will go no further. This is someone – the only one – he trusts implicitly, but can he truly bring himself to jerk off and come into his hand right next to Nikolai? To debase himself that way? When he'd imagined similar situations over and over, and done the same think Nikolai is proposing he do now in the comfort and privacy of his own bed, smothering his moans with a pillow?

Kirill raises his head, looks over at his driver, his expression half-relieved, half-stunned and disbelieving. Nikolai doesn't return his gaze, but shifts in his seat, spreading his legs below the steering wheel. And he continues to look straight ahead, through the windscreen at the dark street, as one of his hands begins to drift down his thigh.

Kirill swallows hard, his eyes following the movement of Nikolai's hand, his mouth dry. And when that hand finds it's way to close over Nikolai's own suddenly very evident erection, Kirill almost loses it. Almost creams himself like a schoolboy. Nikolai palms himself through his trousers slowly for a moment, and then rests his hand back on his thigh, allowing Kirill to stare at the impressive outline of his long, thick shaft, his tight balls, through the cloth barrier containing him.

"Fuck," Kirill gasps out into the silence. "Fuck, Nikolai…" He is acutely aware of the desperation in his voice, and Nikolai only nods.

His gaze fixed hungrily on his driver's groin, Kirill lifts his hips, unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them down far enough to release his throbbing hardness. Taking himself in his hand, he grips tightly and beats his wrist as slow as he can bear to. The head of his cock is already very slick, and he brushes his thumb across it to spread the wetness, a whimper fluttering at the back of his throat.

Nikolai says nothing, but a muscle in his cheek twitches at Kirill's desperate sound. His fingers tremble where they rest on his thigh. Kirill barely notes this; he is caressing Nikolai's shaft with his stare, feeling Nikolai's frustration, and it excites him. He jerks himself faster, gripping a little too tightly as he imagines Nikolai would. (Actually, he certainly has _never_ imagined that. And that certainly was not another whimper escaping him at the thought; the King of the Vors does _not_ whimper for his driver.) He groans instead, beginning to twist his wrist on the upstroke, his erection twitching in his hand.

Kirill feels that potential energy in Nikolai once again; ready to explode, or scream, or at least move or speak. Why must he be so stonily calm and silent all the time? Why can he not give in and behave like an animal once in a while? Nikolai only moves his hand back to where it had been, rubbing the heel along his shaft, curling his fingers over his balls. The sight catapults Kirill to the edge of his orgasm, but he forces himself with gritted teeth to hold back, to slow the beating of his wrist for a moment, to let himself recede from the point of no return. To allow Nikolai to catch up? To meet him in the middle, so that they come together? Is that Nikolai's intention?

It seems to be. Kirill makes his hand go slow and steady instead of frantic and needful on his cock as Nikolai unzips himself. The driver's breath is rough and rasping, suddenly betraying him, and it delights Kirill to know how much he wants this, to the point of almost tipping him over the edge again.

He bites his lip ihard/i when Nikolai frees his erection, his fingers trailing up his shaft gently as he had done to that damned bottle of Stoli out in the street.

"пожалуйста," Kirill moans, his throat aching, his mouth dry once again. He hardly ever says that word, isn't even sure what he's asking for. The King of the Vors does not beg – although in these circumstances, it seems he does. The King of the Vors is stretched across the front seat of his car, staring shamefully at his driver's cock, more aroused than he's ever been in his life, beating his own erection like it'll save his sanity, and in many ways, it will. This is all very, very queer. If Kirill were watching this from the outside, watching himself, he would laugh until he was sick and then shoot himself through the head.

Nikolai shifts forward in the driver's seat, his eyes suddenly wide and inviting. Kirill manages to meet them, his own burning with disgrace and desire and denied release. He can't think. He can't remember how to reprimand or control himself. He can't consider the future and what could happen if anyone found out about this. His mind is blank of everything except mad lust and his feelings for Nikolai. If he didn't have to guard this secret with his life, and if he weren't so proud, he might have said, "я тебя люблю."

And when Nikolai nods, just once, Kirill leans forward, lays his head at the juncture of Nikolai's thighs and swallows him down, swallows his cock. God, he was born for this. Born to suck cock – to suck Nikolai's cock, and he knows it. Kirill's hand is still tight around his erection, and for a moment he wonders if he's going to come when his lips slide down Nikolai's length. But he holds himself back with a patience he would never have in any other situation, letting his tongue play around the head of Nikolai's hardness, tasting him.

Nikolai's breath is tight and fiercely fast, his thighs tense around Kirill's head. Kirill can tell how close he is. Closer than he realised, probably closer than Nikolai himself realised. He moans again, the sound lost in the apex of Nikolai's thighs. The driver's hand settles gently on the back of Kirill's head, in contrast to his hips, which begin to move upwards desperately, fucking Kirill's mouth. Unable to hold back. A long, drawn-out groan tears from Nikolai's throat, his fist clenching in in Kirill's hair.

Kirill's body is taut with pleasure, tense as a bowstring across Nikolai's lap. His cock jerks in his now loose grip, pre-come pooling at the tip and coating his knuckles. Nikolai grins wolfishly, groaning again through his teeth.

"You need it bad, don't you?" he growls softly. Kirill can tell by Nikiolai's voice that he is all too aware of the power he has over his Captain right now – and that he is enjoying it immensely. Kirill visibly shakes with it, proving him right. His lips tighten pleadingly, cheeks hollow as he sucks wantonly.

"Are you ready?" Nikolai inquires on a sharp gasp. "Are you..?" He breaks off with another breathless groan, cock spasming in Kirill's mouth. "Христос, Kirill.."

Every muscle in Nikolai's body tighten as he spills himself down his Captain's throat. His back arches against the seat, head snapping back, the strong tendons in his neck working, visible beneath his skin. His fist clenches tightly, Kirill's hair caught between his fingers, and it hurts, and it only makes Kirill want this more. He can't help murmuring, half-moaning as Nikolai's essence floods onto his tongue. It tastes revolting, but he swallows with a soft gurgle at the back of his throat, not sure what else to do.

Resting his forehead against Nikolai's thigh, Kirill has to give himself a moment before he can sit up. He needs to come so badly now it's truly painful. In retrospect, he should have made himself come when Nikolai did. He hates himself, and moans pathetically into the fabric of Nikolai's trousers.

Kirill doesn't expect to be roughly shoved away, forced to sit up straight. He is about to be angry when Nikolai seizes his chin in one hand and his cock in the other. Kirill stares in shock and conflict and pain, then shows Nikolai the whites of his eyes as they roll back with the contact where he needs it most. His stomach twists at the sensation of Nikolai's warm hand touching him where he's never been touched by any man but himself. It feels so good, he thinks he might swoon in Nikolai's arms.

"Tell me you want it!" Nikolai spits.

And then Nikolai is kissing him. Kissing him like his life depends on it. Their teeth clash painfully, lips are bitten, tongues sucked, saliva mingling between their mouths. And Nikolai's hand finally,_ finally_ starts to move. He's surprisingly gentle, yet quick, stroking Kirill's aching erection viciously fast. Kirill, almost delirious with need, chokes into Nikolai's mouth, his moans tripping over each other as they race to burst from him. Nikolai tears his mouth away to hear Kirill, pressing his forehead against his Captain's. They are both damp with sweat.

"Скажи мне," Nikolai hisses, and there's no shame left inside of Kirill to stop him.

"Мне нужна она.. fuck, Nikolai.. пожалуйста.. Мне нужна она."

"Do you want to come?"

"да.."

Nikolai hooks an arm around his Captain's shoulders, holding on possessively. His green eyes are heavy and clouded.

"Then come," he snarls, "Fucking come for me right now!"

And the King of the Vors, who takes orders from ino one/i, is helpless to obey. He comes so hard he sees stars, all frustration and self-hatred and vitriol forgotten in that moment. His body jerks in pleasure, head slamming back, toes curling inside his shoes. Nikolai strokes him persistently as Kirill's come coats his fingers, watching him, his eyes flicking from his cock to his face contorted in pleasure to the flame-like arches and twists of his thin frame.

Kirill relaxes, limbs weakening. He's still drunk, and he falls into a kind of blissful sated stupor as Nikolai discreetly gets rid of all evidence of what they've just done and quietly starts the car.

Nikolai smiles as he navigates the narrow, badly lit streets and then drags Kirill out of the car. Half-asleep, Kirill giggles as they lurch into the building. It's a rare, genuinely happy sound which touches Nikolai's heart as he guides Kirill into bed. Kirill rises from consciousness for a moment and grins at him before dozing off again. For the moment, at any rate, he's peaceful. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Before he can think too much about it, Nikolai leans forward and kisses Kirill's mouth tenderly. The Captain stirs, reaching out, but Nikolai steps reluctantly away from his lithe, sleeping form.

If he weren't so proud, he might have whispered _я тебя люблю_ as he left the room.

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**TRANSLATIONS**

"пожалуйста," - "Please,"  
я тебя люблю- I love you  
"Христос, Kirill.." - "Christ, Kirill.."  
"Скажи мне," - "Tell me,"  
"Мне нужна она.." - "I need it.."  
"да.." - "Yes.."


End file.
